Flaubert offered a glass of Bordeaux red wine, which shimmered with a jewel-like blush in the firelight of the fireplace.
Lionel felt the coolness of the crystal glass and fell into contemplation.
The living room instantly quieted, all eyes focused on him—Zola with inquiry and expectation, Goncourt stroking his beard thoughtfully, Maupassant a little nervous, Daudet with gentle eyes…
Everyone was waiting for this rising star of the literary world to declare his allegiance.
Lionel knew that what Flaubert offered was not just wine, but a blank flag, waiting for him to draw his emblem; he could no longer be as ambiguous as before.
Lionel raised his glass: "Thank you for the fine wine, Mr. Flaubert, and thank you, gentlemen, for your interest in the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone, his tone becoming clear and firm: "However, I must frankly say, just as when I wrote the old guard or letter from an unknown woman before—
When I conceived the story of Benjamin Button, I did not deliberately think of 'naturalism' or 'documentary fiction' in my mind, nor even the concepts of 'realism' or 'romanticism'."
At these words, Zola's brow furrowed slightly, and Goncourt's gesture of stroking his beard stopped.
In this era, it was inconceivable to write a novel without adhering to a certain 'ism', especially for someone as young as him.
A hint of understanding and interest flashed in Flaubert's eyes: "Oh? Are you planning to be the Baudelaire of novelists?"
Baudelaire, the author of The Flowers of Evil, was a pioneer of French Symbolist poetry, known for rejecting tradition and forging his own path early in his career.
But Lionel, at least at this stage, did not want to be a renegade standard-bearer.
He put down his glass and shook his head: "Please allow me to explain. I greatly admire naturalism's persistent exploration of reality, detail, and human nature; I also agree with the 'documentary' style advocated by Mr. Goncourt—
It requires the author to be as rigorous as a historian, building a convincing world upon the foundation of irrefutable details.
Of course, there is also realism; Mr. Balzac's The Human Comedy, all-encompassing, has erected an unattainable monument for us.
As for those once popular 'romanticism' and 'fantasy novels', their wild imagination has also provided me with endless inspiration."
He candidly acknowledged the value of various schools, which softened Zola's and Goncourt's expressions slightly. Flaubert's interest grew stronger; he was very curious where Lionel would ultimately go.
Maupassant, Huysmans, and others showed confused expressions. Was Lionel still planning to be an elusive mudfish?
"But," Lionel's tone shifted, and a surge of enthusiasm emerged in his voice: "In my opinion, these great 'isms' are more like a dazzling array of precious ingredients laid out before a chef, rather than a recipe dictating which dish he must make.
If I were this chef, I wouldn't tell myself, 'You must make French,' or 'You must make Italian,' 'You must make Spanish.' I just want to make a delicious dish, not think about which cookbook it belongs to."
"Ha, luckily you didn't say 'English'!" Maupassant suddenly interjected with a jest, and a ripple of laughter went through the room.
Lionel was unfazed and continued: "If it's literature, 'English' could also be a good dish."
He then returned to the main topic: "the extraordinary adventures of benjamin button is such a 'dish'. When I needed to depict Paris in the scorching heat of 1789, the details of 'documentary fiction' were my most solid support.
I had to make readers feel Luc Bouton's painful choice under immense fear; 'naturalism's' profound insight into human nature was an important reference for portraying his psychology.
I longed to show that infant, born old, whose very existence questioned the normal course of life and the laws of time. At this point, 'romanticism' and 'fantasy novels' gave me the courage and imagination to break the shackles of reality.
And when I wanted to open the entire story with Delphine's dying recollections amidst the smoke of the Paris Commune, realism's delicate portrayal of atmosphere, emotion, and character relationships became indispensable."
He looked around at everyone, finally settling on Flaubert, his eyes bright and sincere: "So, you ask me which 'ism' I belong to? Mr. Flaubert, I can only say that I belong to the needs of the story itself.
What I crave is such freedom in creation—when the story requires precise historical research, I can be as rigorous as an archivist;
When it needs to explore how human nature is alienated by its environment, I can be as cold as an anatomist;
When it needs a shocking premise to question human existence itself, I am like a wizard in a fable."
The living room was silent. This creative view of "free choice, mixed application" undoubtedly challenged the clear boundaries of 19th-century literary circles, which typically divided writers into camps by school.
Maupassant couldn't help but speak, with a hint of confusion and curiosity: "Lionel, that sounds… very free. But wouldn't this freedom lead to chaos?
Without a core idea or method as an anchor, how can a work maintain stylistic unity and thematic depth?"
This was almost everyone's question, especially among the younger writers.
Lionel looked at Maupassant: "Guy, that's a good question. The anchor of this freedom is not in the dogma of some external 'ism', but within—in 'humanity' itself."
Huysmans laughed: "That sounds like something from 400 years ago."
Lionel knew he was referring to the humanism of the Renaissance, but he didn't rush to refute, instead emphasizing the word again: "'Humanity'! This is the ultimate direction of all our writing.
Mr. Flaubert once taught us, 'madame bovary, c'est moi!' Doesn't that reveal the deepest mystery of literature? We write about humanity, understand humanity, and ultimately, it is to understand ourselves.
We are firmly bound within our flesh—hunger, sickness, aging, death are iron laws, the domain of naturalism's observation.
We also live in specific social environments—the storm of the Revolution, the glory of the Empire, the blood and fire of the Commune… this is the land cultivated by realism.
However, this heavy flesh and the shackles of reality cannot prevent us from soaring freely with imagination! Even making time flow backward, and the dead rise again."
He paused for a moment, letting everyone digest his words.
"Benjamin Button," Lionel's voice deepened, full of emotion, "he is an ultimate symbol, a vessel that pushes this 'mixed' nature of humanity to an extreme.
I write about him not to prove the correctness of a certain 'ism', but to try, through this extreme, fictional 'person', to reflect, magnify, and question the common dilemmas and hopes of all of 'us' in the face of time, fate, loneliness, love, and being loved."
Lionel concluded, his gaze clear and firm: "Therefore, my creative philosophy can perhaps be called a 'free mixture serving humanity'.
I freely use the tools provided by various 'isms'—the depiction of reality, the observation of nature, the precision of documentation, the wings of fantasy, the poetry of symbolism—but all of this revolves tightly around the exploration, understanding, and expression of 'humanity'.
It is not for the sake of an 'ism', but writing for humanity. Humanity itself is the most wonderful and complex mixture of reality and fantasy, body and spirit, history and present, concrete and symbolic.
As for which ready-made drawer it should be placed in? I believe time will provide the answer, or perhaps, it should not be placed in any ready-made drawer at all."
As Lionel's words fell, the salon plunged into a longer silence. The daylight outside was bright, reflecting the complex expressions on everyone's faces—there was deep thought, shock, confusion, and also a glimmer of sudden enlightenment.
After a long while, Flaubert let out a hearty laugh. He clapped Lionel on the shoulder, his eyes full of admiration: "Good! Well said!
'Writing for humanity'! 'Humanity is a wonderful mixture'!
Flaubert raised his glass: "To Lionel Sorel! To his 'freak baby'!"
Everyone raised their glasses, and the atmosphere became lively again.
Although the seeds of doubt and debate had been sown, at least at this moment, Lionel had, in a way that was not sharp but very clear, declared that he was not an appendage of any camp or school.